


Tying Up Loose Ends

by Shaicarus



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: 14 days of DA Lovers, Individual chapters will be tagged as needed, M/M, Not Beta Read, Other, one shot compilation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:34:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22584907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaicarus/pseuds/Shaicarus
Summary: “Everyone is saying goodbye,” he answered, voice low and reluctant. “They won’t say it straight, but I hear it all the same. My brother still barely speaks to me. No matter how everything here goes–badly, if I’m reading the atmosphere right–I will be alone when this shit show ends.”
Relationships: Iron Bull/Male Original Character, Iron Bull/OMC, Iron Bull/Original Character, Isabela/Hawke, Isabela/Nonbinary Hawke, Lavellan/Josephine Montilyet, Mahariel/Morrigan (Dragon Age), Male Trevelyan/Dorian Pavus, Male Trevelyan/Original Male Character(s), Morrigan/Warden (Dragon Age), Nonbinary Lavellan/Josephine Montilyet, Nonbinary Warden/Morrigan, Trevelyan/Dorian Pavus, Zevran Arainai/Male Warden, Zevran Arainai/Tabris, Zevran/Male Tabris
Kudos: 3





	1. Day 1: Rose: Lavellan/Josephine

**Author's Note:**

> i decided to give the 14 Days of DA Lovers thing a try, but unlike the month-long challenge last august, i will not be sticking with one central character, and will instead be breaking all of my DA characters out of the toy box.

Flowers are rare in Skyhold. Most space in the gardens goes to herbs with more specific purposes, and as it is, they tend to be too cold for anything too picky to thrive.

~~(“Or for _any_ of us to thrive,” Dorian gripes, always ready to remind people of his opinions on the matter. Petrichor pays him a limited amount of attention when he’s in those moods.)~~

But nevertheless, Petrichor is resourceful.

It isn’t actually a rose, more closely related to pansies than to anything else. It doesn’t smell as sweet as a rose, and its colors are always a bit more muted, but their abundance of petals mean people mistake them for roses frequently enough that it’s basically become official. Frost roses, they’re called. They thrive in chilly weather, and Petrichor has a pot in the main garden set aside specifically for one such plant.

Petrichor isn’t sure what color the plant will be when they plant the seed, nor as it steadily grows. Not until the bud forms and gradually splits open, revealing a mess of mostly white petals, the center-most petals a deep, bronze-ish purple.

When it is knee-high and threatening to overtake the confines of its pot, Petrichor brings it inside. They prune it carefully, just so it looks a little tidier and a little less like it’s been trying to out-compete the mint and chamomile. And once it’s looking its best, they bring the pot to Josephine’s office.

They peer into her office cautiously, pot propped against one hip, and they grin a small, private grin when they see that the room is empty. They step inside, set the pot on the desk, and clamber up to sit on the windowsill. And they wait. It doesn’t take long.

When Josephine bustles in with her board and her quill and her candle, the office seems to come alive with her presence. She drops her board and quill down on the desk and sets to pacing across the rug in front of the fireplace.

Petrichor folds their arms over their chest and watches her expectantly as she murmurs to herself, her hands gesticulating every so often. Even now, she’s still lost in whatever problem her work has handed to her, and she hasn’t even noticed their presence.

It’s adorable.

A few more moments pass, and finally Josephine returns to her desk. And she pauses. She blinks at the flower, and with a low, “Well, where did _you_ come from?” she reaches out to touch one of the petals.

She looks up again, as if to see if someone left a note, and _at last_ , she nearly leaps out of her skin when she spots the Inquisitor lounging on the windowsill. “Petra!” she scolds, laughing and exasperated in a single breath, a hand on her chest.

“Took you a minute, but you made it,” they acknowledge, grinning, as they hop down from the sill to round the desk. “Do you like it?”

Josephine looks back down at the flower, her expression gentling into a smile. “It’s lovely,” she replies. “A…frost rose, is it not?”

“Got it in one,” they confirm, stepping into range as she turns toward them.

When they kiss, it’s more just a brief peck, and the two of them part soon after. Petrichor leans up on their toes to press their foreheads together briefly, before offering, “I’ll let you get back to work. I just thought the office could use a little brightening up.”

“You could have just brought yourself for that,” Josephine replies, smile turning just the bit impish. She laughs behind a hand when they roll their eyes, toss their hands up, and make a scene of fleeing the room.


	2. Day 2: Hand Holding: Trevelyan/Dorian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> owain is my mage inquisitor. irrick is owain’s non-mage twin brother. that’s pretty much the only context you need.

“ _’Oh, such disrespect, storming out like that! How could you! It’s not like the Divine herself told you to!’_ ” Owain threw his hands up, before burying his face in his palms. He heaved a sigh and dragged his hands down his face, to instead dig two of his right knuckles into the meat of his left hand. “Why couldn’t the runner just go to _Leliana_ , and then Her Holiness could call the recess? I really doubt there’s anyone here who believes she doesn’t still have her own network, and no one’s allowed to argue with her without looking bad.”

"Are you actually angry?” Dorian wondered, caught somewhere between concern and amusement. “Perish the thought. I hardly believe it’s possible.”

“This isn’t funny, Dorian!” Owain snapped, and his voice broke at the last second. “ _Shit_ ,” he muttered emphatically, ducking his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose between two knuckles.

“Oh. Well.” Dorian was on his feet in an instant, shooing Owain’s hand aside and cupping his face in both hands. "Come now, tell me what else is going on in that pretty head.”

“Nothing,” Owain mumbled, voice damp.

Dorian scoffed. “Owain Deiniol Trevelyan, you have gone to pieces a grand total of twice in the time I’ve known you. Pull the other one.”

Owain sighed, tense enough that his shoulders seemed to vibrate. “Everyone is saying goodbye,” he answered, voice low and reluctant. “They won’t say it straight, but I hear it all the same. Irrick still barely speaks to me. No matter how everything here goes– _badly_ , if I’m reading the atmosphere right–I will be alone when this shit show ends.”

“Amatus,” Dorian sighed, and he made an attempt at tugging Owain closer.

“No, no–” Halfheartedly, Owain stiff-armed him away. “I will leak on your robe, you’ll make a crack about me needing to replace it, and then I’ll _actually_ start crying.”

“I would never,” Dorian huffed, feigning offense.

“Of course not,” Owain sighed dryly, again massaging his left hand. “How silly of me.”

“Quite right,” Dorian tutted, before he grabbed Owain’s hand, benevolently holding it captive. He resumed his seat on the couch and Owain slumped down to sit on the coffee table. “Honestly, Amatus, I’ve seen statues in Minrathous more relaxed than you are,” Dorian mused, massaging Owain’s knuckles.

Owain snorted out a mirthless laugh, but otherwise didn’t offer a reply. Gradually, though, the line of tension across his shoulders began to dissipate, at least a bit.

Dorian lifted Owain’s hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “Regardless of what happens,” he offered quietly, lowering Owain’s hand again, “you won’t lose any of us, Amatus. There will just be a little more distance in the middle.”

“And the Circle was just a boarding school,” Owain retorted dryly, before he mustered up half a smile. “I’m sure you’re right,” he sighed before he got to his feet again, his hand slipping from Dorian’s grasp. “Regardless, I suppose I should go give Josephine a chance to yell at me.”


	3. Day 3: Bow & Arrow: Iron Bull/OC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> irrick’s last name is trevelyan, but he’s not actually an inquisitor. his twin brother is owain, the inquisitor from the previous ficlet. i adore them and their relationship with each other but it is not actually a good relationship a lot of the time and i could ramble about it So Much.
> 
> fun fact: when irrick and owain first meet bull on the storm coast, irrick looks at bull. looks at owain. looks at bull. and informs owain “i’m going to climb him like a tree.” owain shrieked at him, scandalized.
> 
> warning: implied self-destructive tendencies.

He knew he wasn’t alone. While Bull was perfectly capable of moving silently, he wasn’t putting any effort into it just then. Even with the rain, Irrick heard him coming from half a league away.

“You’re soaked,” Bull observed blandly.

“Rain will do that,” Irrick returned without looking at him, nocking another arrow. He let it fly, and it hit the target with a firm _thock!_ Another bullseye, and time to collect his arrows again.

Bull caught his shoulder and pulled the bow from his grip before Irrick could take a step. His eyes narrowed slightly when Irrick failed to fully straighten his fingers afterward. Truth be told, Irrick couldn’t remember when he had switched from grabbing arrows with his fingertips to his knuckles. Even with the bow in Bull’s hands, he could still feel the string digging into his fingers.

Bull didn’t bother to ask how long Irrick had been at it. Instead, as he ushered Irrick into motion towards The Herald’s Rest, Bull sighed, “What’d he do?”

“Who?” Irrick asked, not feigning innocence so much as simply playing dumb.

“Your brother,” Bull returned, planting a hand between Irrick’s shoulders to steer him along. “What’d he do?”

“Not everything I do is because of the Inquisitor,” Irrick groused, slowly trying to flex his fingers in favor of actually looking at Bull. His knuckles protested the action. He was pretty sure his callouses had blistered and split beneath his gloves, too.

“If you’re calling him ‘the Inquisitor,’” Bull argued dryly, “then it means he did something.” He pushed open the door to the tavern and ushered Irrick through ahead of him and towards the stairs. As Irrick headed up, Bull paused at the bottom of the stairs just long enough to hand the bow to Krem for safe keeping.

Irrick was sitting on the edge of the bed in Bull’s partially collapsed room, tugging his gloves off, when Bull stepped in and closed the door.

“You know that was stupid,” Bull pointed out, eyeing Irrick’s hands.

“Wasn’t exactly _planned_ ,” Irrick returned, arching one eyebrow. “So what now?” he asked, amused expectation creeping into his tone. Carelessly, he tossed his gloves aside. “Is this the part where you punish me for it?”

Bull tipped his head back, contemplating what was left of the ceiling as he made a show of thinking the question over. “Nah,” he settled on. “Pretty sure the way your shoulders are gonna feel tomorrow will be more than enough punishment.”

Irrick wrinkled his nose at the reminder.

“For now,” Bull carried on, “we get your hands taken care of, and we’ll see where the rest of the night takes us. See if we can’t dry you off and warm you up.”


	4. Day 4: Napping Together: Tabris/Zevran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: implied sedation.

The camp site has been selected. The bedrolls have been laid out. The fire has been lit and food has been served.

The Deep Roads aren’t quiet, but the noises are wrong. There is no wind. There are no crickets or birds or bats or wolves or foxes. Water drips. Rocks slide. Occasional pockets of magma belch heat. Everything echoes strangely through the tunnels, so only Darrick and Zevran are really capable of telling what direction a sound is coming from. It’s dark and it smells strange and it’s impossible to tell what time it is, and on the whole, no one is feeling particularly talkative.

Darrick drags his bedroll over to Zevran’s, carefully lines them up, and then sprawls out beside the assassin, though mostly on top of him. Zevran grunts with the impact as Darrick splays over his ribs.

“Missing me already, my Warden?” he wonders dryly, giving Darrick’s ponytail a playful tug. Darrick grumbles and pulls a blanket over his head.

“Sounds nothin’ like Denerim,” he grouses, a scowl in his voice, and it’s not quite what he means or all that he could say, but Zevran seems to get the point regardless.

“Cannot even say it is quiet,” Zevran observes, by way of agreement. “It just sounds…a touch dead.” He lifts the edge of the blanket enough to peer at Darrick. “Though I am not certain what you hope to achieve with suffocation.”

“I mean, ya hafta admit,” Darrick returns reasonably, “that if I dropped dead, I wouldn’ needa deal with any o’ this shit anymore.”

Zevran rolls his eyes and gives Darrick’s ponytail another tug. “Have you always been this dramatic?” he asks. “I am fairly sure just falling asleep is the better option.”

Darrick scoffs. “Zev, fallin’ asleep hasn’t been a ‘just’ since I were four months old,” he points out. “Doesn’ work that easily.”

Slowly, Zevran sat up on his elbows to properly look at Darrick. “If you want me to drug you, you could have just said so.”

“Maker, _please_.”


	5. Day 5: Love Letter: Hawke/Isabela

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’ve never written isabela before, you can probably tell
> 
> i love madry (their name is madrigal but they haven’t been called that since the last time leandra scolded them) dearly, but they are a horrible mage and i will mock them for it endlessly. they can and will beat a motherfucker with a stick, though. and no, i have no idea how they’re sending messages quickly enough to carry on a conversation like this and no one cares.
> 
> warning: epistolary chapter. mentions of blood magic.

_You never use that blood of yours for anything useful, do you? You could just teleport yourself to my ship and never have to deal with any of this again. But no, you have to take the honorable route for everything.  
\- Isabela_

_I’ve never been honorable in my life. Also I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to do that even if I drained an entire druffalo, and I don’t want to do that. Druffalos are cute.  
Anyway, we’ve been over this: I am BUSY still. When the world stops ripping itself apart, then you can turn me into your first mate or whatever you want to do.  
\- Madry_

_Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, sweetheart. You can scrub the captain’s quarters, and work your way up from there.  
And I swear, you are the least mage-y mage I’ve ever met. Champion of Kirkwall and if you can’t solve the mess with a thimble of blood, you’re more likely to just smash the problem over the head. Some mages summon lightning, did you know that?  
\- Isabela_

_I will summon all the lightning you want WHEN THE WORLD STOPS RIPPING ITSELF APART.  
\- Madry_

_Ooh, fiesty.  
You and me both know that’s never going to happen, love, and they’re going to keep trying to reel you back into it no matter how long it’s been if you stick around. If you want to get away from all of it, you’re better off tucking tail and leaving. Pick a port. Get comfy. I can meet you there.  
\- Isabela_

_You know it’s not that simple, much as I wish.  
\- Madry_

_Can’t it be?  
\- Isabela_

_Maybe._   
_I’m too deep in this current mess to just drop everything, but maybe I’ll take you up on that after I get the Wardens sorted. Keep a seat warm for me._   
_\- Madry_


	6. Day 6: Fighting Together: Mahariel/Morrigan

The raven circles broadly above, once, then twice, then a third time, before she is satisfied. She dips back toward the ground below, circling once more over Temry’s head before landing on their shoulder. Just long enough to preen a strand of their bangs, and then she flutters to the ground.

“Twenty-four of them, from what I could make out,” Morrigan says, human-shaped once again. “Including a pair of emissaries.”

“Sounds exciting,” Temry replies, checking their bowstring and their supply of arrows.

“Please,” Morrigan scoffs. “‘Twould be, perhaps, if there were an _ogre_ ,” she argues, only part of her attention on Temry as her gaze slides past them, to the stone alcove where Kieran has been tucked out of sight. He peers out at her until he realizes she’s looking, and he ducks back into his hiding place.

“Come on, we both know I’m basically made of glass and willow bark,” Temry protests, nocking an arrow. “There isn’t even anything to hide behind here.”

“If they are looking at us, they are not looking at him,” Morrigan reasons, pulling her staff from where it rests across her back.

“And that doesn’t make it a _little_ exciting?” they wheedle. The first genlock breaks through the woodline, and they let the arrow fly. The genlock rocks backward and drops to the ground as it’s impaled through the eye.

A shriek behind it bursts into flame.

“Perhaps,” Morrigan concedes, her gaze going steely. “But only if they get close enough for it to matter.”


	7. Day 7: Love Birds: Trevelyan/OC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> henrik is an oc belonging to one of my friends, used with permission. oleander spends most of his time internally squeeing about henrik being precious. it’s a good pastime.

When Oleander first spots Henrik, he’s concerned, for a moment–Henrik is crouching in the middle of the courtyard, staring at something in the grass–but it doesn’t take long for him to realize what’s going on. Slowly, a grin spreads across Oleander’s face.

A pair of ravens are shuffling about in the grass between Henrik’s boots, staring up at him expectantly as he speaks to them.

“Yes, yes, you’ve made your point,” Henrik sighs, inspecting the paring knife one of the birds has dropped at his feet. “Where did you even get this from?” It’s a silly question, really. The birds are everywhere. Outside. Inside. Ramparts. Balconies. Throw a stone anywhere within Skyhold and a flock will scatter.

_brawk._

“Well, what’s it for, then?” Henrik asks, tucking the knife into his belt.

_brawk._

Henrik straightens up as the birds begin fluttering across the courtyard, following them over to a wilting plant. Oleander should probably know what it is, but he doesn’t, and he’s not inclined to care too much just then.

He presses his knuckles to his mouth to keep quiet, not even bothering to fight his grin away as Henrik kneels and cups his hands around the plant. There’s a spark of magic, and slowly the plants leaves darken and perk back up. The birds do a bit of a jig and tug at Henrik’s sleeves, before they immediately rip the plant from the ground and begin pecking at its roots.

Ah, yes. Necromancy. Truly terrifying.

Oleander waits to approach until Henrik has straightened back up, glancing over his shoulder as the Inquisitor approaches. He smiles, soft and sheepish.

“I would say it wasn’t what it looked like, but I’m not even sure what it looked like.” 

“It _looked_ like two of Leliana’s birds just paid you for dinner,” Oleander observes wryly.

“Then yes, I suppose it was exactly what it looked like,” Henrik admits. “Going to tattle on me to your spymaster?”

Oleander holds his hands up, feigning surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies. “Your new friends might find more knives and come after me.”

**Author's Note:**

> like what you see? feel free to come chat on [tumblr](https://shaicarus.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
